Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Bellucci’s Mardi Gras Beady Ziti
Scripture: “For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.”
Luke 8:17
Italian: “La verità viene sempre a galla.”
The truth always rises to the surface.
The first bowl of ziti arrived before the parade.
Not during.
Not after.
Before.
That was the part Valeri Caronna could not stop looking at.
It sat on the desk inside Caronna Publishing, steaming under a foil lid, rich with tomato sauce, melted cheese, basil, and that heavy baked smell that could make a hungry person forgive almost anything. Around the white ceramic bowl was one neat strand of Mardi Gras beads.
Purple. Green. Gold.
Not thrown loose. Not tangled. Not cheap and wild like a Bourbon Street sidewalk after midnight.
Placed.
Deliberate.
Vinny Bellucci stood behind the desk with his arms folded, staring at the bowl like it had insulted his bloodline.
“That ain’t from my kitchen,” he said.
Valeri looked over at him. “You sure?”
Vinny gave her that look. The one that said he had been nice for three full seconds and was now finished with the charity work.
“Val, I know my ziti.”
Outside, New Orleans was already turning itself into a jeweled animal. Brass horns barked somewhere beyond the walls. A drumline warmed up down the block. The whole city smelled like rain, beer, powdered sugar, engine smoke, and secrets putting on perfume.
Mardi Gras season had started crawling toward its crown.
And now somebody had sent pasta to the publishing office like a warning wrapped in mozzarella.
Valeri leaned closer.
The ziti was beautiful. Too beautiful. Ridged tubes stacked beneath red sauce, browned cheese bubbling at the edges, parsley scattered like green confetti. It looked homemade, but staged. The beads around the bowl were classic solid round beads, the kind everybody knew, the kind nobody respected until they were gone.
Tucked beneath the strand was a small card.
Valeri did not touch it right away.
She reached for her tarot deck instead.
Vinny noticed. “Already?”
“Already.”
She shuffled once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then she laid five cards across the desk.
The Page of Cups. The Seven of Swords. The Chariot. The Moon. The Tower.
Vinny’s smile disappeared.
“That’s not dinner,” Valeri said.
“No,” he answered. “That’s somebody trying to start a war with a casserole.”
She finally lifted the card from beneath the beads.
On one side, written in black ink:
Rex rolls first, but the king does not know who crowned him.
On the other side:
Ziti Rigati. Classic Round. Aries. First clue.
Vinny took the card from her hand and read it twice.
“Whoever did this knows the structure,” he said.
Valeri nodded slowly. “Twelve beads. Twelve ziti. Twelve parades.”
“And twelve chances for somebody to get cute.”
“No,” Valeri said. “Twelve chances for somebody to get killed.”
The office went quiet except for the old building breathing around them.
Caronna Publishing had survived manuscripts, contracts, threats, raids, lies, love, bad coffee, worse men, and enough secrets to make the walls sweat ink. But this was different.
Food was sacred in New Orleans.
Mardi Gras was sacred.
Family names were sacred.
Whoever sent this had taken all three and tied them together with a bead strand.
Vinny picked up a fork and pierced one piece of ziti.
Valeri slapped his hand.
“Don’t eat the clue.”
He looked offended. “I was testing it.”
“With your mouth?”
“That’s where food gets tested.”
She snatched the fork from him.
A knock hit the office door.
Not loud.
Not polite.
Three taps.
Then two.
Then one.
Vinny’s hand moved toward his side, not dramatic, just natural. Valeri saw it and felt the air tighten.
The door opened before either of them answered.
A delivery boy stood there in a purple jacket, green cap, and gold beads hanging from his neck. His face was pale. His hands were shaking.
“I was told to bring this to Miss Caronna,” he said.
Valeri stepped forward. “Who told you?”
He held out a second envelope.
“No name. Paid cash. Said if I didn’t bring it before Rex lined up, somebody would throw more than beads today.”
Vinny took the envelope.
Inside was a single piece of uncooked ziti rigati.
Stuffed inside the hollow tube was a rolled strip of paper.
Valeri pulled it free with tweezers from the desk drawer.
The message read:
The first family to accuse another loses the crown.
Vinny exhaled through his nose.
Outside, the first cheer of the parade rose in the distance.
Valeri looked at the bowl of ziti. Then the beads. Then the tarot cards.
The Moon stared back.
“Somebody wants the Five Families watching each other,” she said.
Vinny’s jaw tightened. “Then they picked the wrong week to play hungry.”
The delivery boy backed toward the door. “Can I go?”
Valeri looked at his beads.
One purple bead was cracked.
Inside it was not plastic.
It was glass.
Handmade.
Rare.
And stained red at the seam.
Valeri reached for it carefully.
Vinny saw it at the same time.
“That,” he said, voice low, “is not parade blood.”
The brass band outside exploded into music.
The city cheered.
The ziti steamed.
And somewhere in New Orleans, somebody had just thrown the first bead.
Prayer:
Lord, reveal what is hidden before the innocent are blamed. Guard our steps through noise, glitter, hunger, and pride. Let truth rise hotter than sauce, cleaner than gold, and stronger than fear. Amen.
